


medicine

by virvoyt



Category: Bastille (Band), The 1975 (Band)
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 03:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virvoyt/pseuds/virvoyt
Summary: of neon lights, kisses, and disasters.





	medicine

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't even thought it would happen someday but an amazing @underthebrightbluemoonx translated this work for me and i can't describe how much i'm grateful

he doesn’t remember if he wants to be here or not. the air is cut through by the volume of the music, the rhythm of the bass, and matty feels the alcohol in his blood, poisoned veins and a slippery, blurry mind, flickering like sharp stars in the sky.

he smokes one cigarette after another, and it is absolutely forbidden, but no one really cares — not now. neon lights brighten faces and bodies, screaming with intensity and burning his eyes, a sharp pain digging into his temple. blame his head on his lack of sleep. blame your intoxication on the bright square in your hand.

his lighter flicks, and matty thinks he needs to find george, needs to get out of here, because it’s unbearable, grinds the pale powder gray of his bones and broken thoughts. matty takes a puff and squeezes through the crowd, bumps into someone’s shoulder, and turns around.

the burning end leaves a mark on a t-shirt, charred edges spreading, and matty meets a confused gaze, bright and surprised. it’s soon replaced by recognition.

london is both too big and too small for two bands that are trying to break through, after party performances that leave a sugary taste on his tongue, and someone introduced them, once. matty finds it difficult to work through the photo album of memories from that evening.

flash.

a quick first impression. matty compliments his voice and in return receives an embarrassed smile and a, “you write amazingly.”

it’s a poetic outline of interweaving words that seems beautiful to a stranger, but when the words are pulled out from your own sub-cortex, your brain, you can hardly find anything beautiful about them, and matty just says “thank you,” because the silence has gone on too long.

they are too different to compete, matty standing black and white, parallel to the fuzzy line of cinema aesthetics, old films and images of Lynchian heroes, but looking deeper, there’s a shared, hidden sadness and reflections dressed in metaphors and different paths.

matty erases his thoughts with pills, prevents them from escaping, from pressing the pen to the paper so that they don’t tell too much, but other people’s stories create a fragile edge, a distant sound.

dan smith, too perfect, too good, is awkward when he inspects his t-shirt and smiles when he recognizes matty. he agrees to a drink, “as an apology,” and the implications teeter just in the edge of too-intimate, on the edge of flirtation, something too vulnerable that could be broken by a few movements, cruel actions or words, and matty doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to feel like that, but what can he do? can he blame everything on loneliness, the desire to feel alive, to feel stable? —

he catches dan’s elbow and pulls them through the dense crowd behind them.

at the bar and one drink later, dan — just dan, he says, not “daniel” or “smith” — has sparkles in his eyes and happiness in the corners of his mouth, and it hits harder than it should. matty would be glad for someone to come and get him or come and talk, get him away from this moment, because his eyes outline the curve of his neck, and his knee touches dan’s, warm and real.

matty says, leaning toward his ear, lips almost brushing the skin,

“sorry about the shirt.”

dan just shrugs. he twirls a plastic, translucent toothpick in his fingers that used to have an orange slice, a nervous gesture, a feeling that matches the one pulsing inside matty, and he’s distracted.

“it’s all good.”

matty wants to light a cigarette, but there’s already a tickling in his throat, and he’s had too many, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. he is twenty-three, and this is not a first date or first show on stage, but it feels strange, the shadows and the fluorescent pink light, the shine of a bracelet on a wrist.

they talk about music, the safest topic, and movies, and dan comes to life — awkwardness is erased, shattered to pieces, and matty feels: laughter tickling his throat, the frightening feeling of comfort, the desire to reach out and make sure this is really happening.

he is afraid to leave ink stains of frustration and broken metaphors on dan’s skin. painful violet bruises of break ups. his breathing is uneven in his gut as his heartbeat spikes. matty says,

“i need a smoke.”

he nods toward the exit. he is surprised when dan easily slides off the bar stool, follows him, finds his hand with his own and does not let go. for some reason, this seems important.

a heavy night sky hangs, oppressive, over them, and the wind is light but frosty and bites at his skin. matty regrets not grabbing his jacket, freezes. he offers the pack out to dan, but he shakes his head and says,

“not my thing.”

matty exhales smoke into the clear air between them. he wants to touch—trembling fingers holding his cigarette — and too often sucks in as he’s under the fever of his thoughts, which are beating around like birds against the bars of a cage.

matty catches dan’s gaze — piercing blue and bright — and dooms himself to hell, throws the cigarette to his feet.

when matty kisses him, the taste of rum and mint tangled with smoke, fingers tangle into locks of hair, move down the back of his head. dan freezes like a creature in headlights, pupils dilated with surprise, shock.

straight boys who are not used to the attention of other boys are predictable, and it’s as if reading from a book for a few seconds, until matty feels a touch along the waist of his t-shirt, lips moving in return. the heat ignites something against his ribs, and his skin burns.

he presses dan against the wall, hips to hips, and in the distance, there’s a girlish laugh from the busy london street, and matty needs more, needs to be closer, and he touches burning skin with the palm of his hand, lets the warmth lead him.

biting his lower lip and slowly tracing the edge of his jaw with his fingers, matty feels like icarus, ready to burn, the clouds of smoldering wings settling into ashes.

there is: disheveled hair and mischievous blue eyes, a number in a contact list that was never called, a muffled bit of music. destructive, acidic tenderness. perfection does not fall apart thanks to flushed lips and rapid breathing, the sweet stench of weed and palms frozen over jeans.

matty’s chest is a lead weight that keeps him from breathing, and the thought — crystal clear among the fog of doubts and desires — this is not a disaster, and dan does not crumble in his arms, only tilts his head to the side and asks,

“is everything okay?”

matty nods, thumb passing thoughtlessly over a cheekbone, leaving no oil-slick, dirty mark. he hears,

“we have a gig next friday.”

matty wants to say, “i’ll come,” but his insides are tied up like a snake, like a knot, and it comes out detached,

“good.”

he kisses him again and hugs him a little tighter than he should, rests his chin on his shoulder, and the world around him falls silent, shrinks down to a measurable heartbeat, and it’s quiet, and all is well, the slight smell of sweat and light powder.

everything is fine.

he is okay.

matty feels the warmth of his palm stroking his shoulder blades, and this isn’t calm, but it’s something close. he needs only a couple of minutes — find his jacket, call a taxi, text george — to go home. but for now, he exhales and asks,

“which club?”


End file.
